


what a lovely way to burn

by kitmarlowed



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:31:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9591899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitmarlowed/pseuds/kitmarlowed
Summary: There it is, the conceit, the tone that says 'yes, you've stopped me once or twice, you saved the child, but you're not winning'. Lucy knows she's not winning, knows it in her bones the way the gunshot rattled through them as it tore through Jesse James. She knows it like she knows her sister won't exist when she's back, she's sick of knowing that they've always been steps behind. She drains her drink, wants to surprise him, revels in the burn as the cheap vodka hits her throat and his quiet as he waits for her to respond, and walks away.





	

**Author's Note:**

> set after Karma Chameleon but fully anticipating to be jossed by The Lost Generation. title is Peggy Lee's Fever

"Of all the gin-joints in all the towns in all of time," says Flynn. "She walks into mine." The accent's American, strong and passable, but she supposes you don't get to where he is without being able to shed your skin like a snake.

Lucy sighs, the band strikes up. It's the forties, America's losing a generation but the bandleader's trying to keep up the tempo. He wants the people to dance. She clutches her martini - just dregs now, too bitter with lemon - like a lifeline, turns to him.

"You're too tall for Bogart," Lucy tells him, thankful for the sad bar and the scared people and the happy music, thankful that it's not just them. "Why are you here?"

"Well, Lucy, I have a time-machine," Flynn says, like the beginning of a joke, like it's funny that she's in the 1940s, like they haven't endangered each other a dozen times over. And she looks at him, alarmed, but no-one heard, no-one's ever listening. No-one's noticed the damn Apple Watch around his wrist, his disdain for the sanctity of the history it's her job to protect. "So I thought it would be fun. Besides, after Rufus and Wyatt's little trip back to the eighties, we weren't square."

"You moved the mothership, and I don't believe for a second that you're here without a reason."

"Just _travelling_ doesn't count, Lucy."

The bartender coughs politely, smiles at her, and passes her another martini. Smiles at Flynn, tells him, "You got the words wrong, pal," and she wants to warn him that he's laughing with, _at_ , a killer. Revises herself: two killers.

"Did I?" Flynn says, easy but dangerous. There's threat in every inch of him, every sharp angle in his suit, the slick of his hair, sharp eyes even sharper through the dim light and the smoke.

The bartender must be barely twenty-three, too skinny for the draft, and she thinks about just how easily he could end up dead without any help from the war, given the nature of the man at her side. But then, she thinks, he's already dead. "'All the world'," the kid continues. "Man, I'm not sure why you'd even think it was time. Can I get you something?"

Flynn's answering smile flashes too many teeth to be kind, but he shrugs. "Whiskey?"

The bartender shakes his head. "Sorry, pal, we're out. Not that you're missing much. If we'd got it, it'd only be Rittenhouse Rye watered down half to heck. Can get you a rum, though, or this Mexican tequila."

Lucy's heart stops at the name but Flynn doesn't have any discernible tells, doesn't react, doesn't even blink, just shrugs before choosing: "Rum then, neat."

"On the way," says the kid and Lucy focuses on his hands as he grabs the bottle and a glass and continues his chatter, "She's right, by the way, you're way too tall for Bogie."

Flynn laughs, almost graciously, bowing his head as the bartender leaves to furnish another of these people, who will be dead, who _are_  dead in her time, with a watery drink. "You know," he says, wry and low and just for her, "I'm getting a little tired of having 'tall man with strange accent' as my epithet." It creeps back as he says it, idiosyncratic, heavy on certain sounds but so American on others.

"It works for us," she says, then focuses: "though the accent bit isn't always true."

"American is tiring," Flynn smiles as he says it, low and teasing, "you all speak with so much animation-"

Lucy thinks about how Flynn talks: sometimes snarling, sometimes laughing, flirting even, though always expressive. How he talks with his hands. She takes a sip of her drink, takes the bait. "And you don't?"

"All right I'll rephrase: Americ _ans_  are tiring," Flynn admits, and she just wants to wipe the smirk off his face, replace it with something new. She's tired of seeing him alternate between smug and betrayed with no in between. "It has nothing to do with the accent."

"Careful," she warns, though she's feeling anything but, the weird static charge in her chest whenever he talks to her is winding up again, it's distracting. "That wasn't doublespeak. Next you'll be telling me where Karl and Emma are and what they're doing."

"I've always been honest with you," he says, simply, "Karl and Emma are speaking to a man about politics, I'm sure Rufus and your new soldier know all about this if they're half as good as they think."

There it is, the conceit, the tone that says 'yes, you've stopped me once or twice, you saved the child, but you're not winning'. Lucy knows she's not winning, knows it in her bones the way the gunshot rattled through them as it tore through Jesse James. She knows it like she knows her sister won't exist when she's back, she's sick of knowing that they've always been steps behind. She drains her drink, wants to surprise him, revels in the burn as the cheap vodka hits her throat and his quiet as he waits for her to respond, and walks away.

The cold air's only just hit her skin when he catches her. Long strides, she supposes. Flynn doesn't touch her, just stands in the doorway, hat in hand, while she basks in the moonlight. It's so quiet, a silent home front just waiting for news, for anything. Part of her wants to tell them that the tide will turn, that it's almost over and that soon their boys can come home, the other part just wants to turn and run and to never have seen this, to never have gone back that first time.

"Lucy," he says, and she didn't know that sadness the first time they spoke in the same way she knows it now. Her heart's aching constantly, she wonders how he can stand it, how he's still going if his heart is tearing apart with every step that doesn't bring them back.

"Does it go away?" she asks, and he steps closer.

"One day it will, for both of us."

Lucy finally looks at him. "I just don't want to think about it all the time, I want to be able to sleep at night without thinking about her." She wants to make it go away.

"You shouldn't be out here on your own," he murmurs, eyes on hers, on the door, her throat.

"I'm not on my own," she says, takes his hand and knows that it's true.

Wyatt and Rufus have killed, she knows this, and she knows that they have lost but she doesn't feel their equal in the way she does his. There's an anger in Flynn that she doesn't see in Wyatt or Rufus, but she sees it in herself as she pulls him into an alley next to the hotel and tugs him closer.

At arm's length away he practically eclipses the glow from the streetlights - fear is just your reaction to things, she remembers - but she can see that he's looking at her with all his focus, unsurprised but not as sure as he usually is.

When she leans up to kiss him - arms around his shoulders pulling him down to meet her - she keeps her eyes open, just to see the surprise in his. She bites at his lips to hear him gasp, and it seems so incongruous when he does, when he leans into her and her back hits the bricks.

Lucy curls a hand in his hair and pulls, short and sharp, says, "Distract me," and to his credit, Flynn smiles, kisses the edge of her lips, and goes to his knees of his own accord.

Flynn hikes her dress around her waist and unclips her stockings. She shivers, with anticipation as opposed to the cold, and tugs on his hair again, hears him huff out a laugh. Finally, he's guiding her panties - her own, this time, an anachronism she'd allowed herself - down her thighs and she's humming with electricity at every breath she feels against her skin.

She shudders when he spreads her legs, calloused hands on her skin manoeuvring for best advantage as he noses at her. Lucy grabs his shoulders and from the sensation of his tongue and his fingers, she arches her back as much as the space between them allows. As the back of her head touches the bricks, she sees stars both metaphorical and literal, comes back to herself to find him looking up at her, mouth slick. He curls his fingers inside her, and she has to bite her lip to stifle a cry.

Dimly, she wonders whether this was inevitable, two of history's assassins colliding. She wonders if it hurts him, if she's a disgrace to his wife's memory in the same way this feels a little like betraying Amy. But none of that matters, what happens in the past stays there. Lucy wraps her fingers around his wrist, pushes him deeper as he stands up and crashes his mouth to hers - too sloppy to be called a kiss - tastes herself on his lips, his tongue.

His other hand is at her hip, pressing her into the bricks, her other arm is slung across his shoulders, fingers clawing at his back. He twists his wrist, and the drag and burn is too much and she's coming with a gasp against his jaw. She closes her eyes as she catches her breath, smiles despite herself as she feels him slide her panties back into place, put her dress to rights.

When Lucy opens her eyes, he's looking at her with a new kind of interest. She opens her mouth to speak but

"Carlin, come on. We have to find Miss Preston and get out of here," it's their new soldier, his voice coming from the street, and she hears Rufus grumble something.

Flynn steps back, freeing her to leave. "Miss Preston," he says, and bows his head, "you shouldn't keep them waiting."

Lucy laughs, quietly, says, "You bastard," says, "thank you."

She leaves him in the alley and hopes that maybe, at least for tonight, they both get some sleep. He never got his Rittenhouse Rye.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Rittenhouse Rye was not a joke I could pass up
> 
> Find me on tumblr @percybysshes


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